Pour A Little Salt
by horchatita394
Summary: He's lost him forever and the wailing thing inside him seems intent on ripping his insides to shreds as penitence. Post-COLS Angst/Comfort.


He wasn't truly asleep, instead suspended in that midspace that holds your body captive while your mind is at least partly aware; aware of the press of a pillow at his back to simulate the body that belongs there, aware of the chill across his shoulders and the sweat building up around his knees. It's an unsettling state of being because he feels himself awake and knows he will regret the lack of sleep. He breathes in deep, overwhelmed by the conjured scent of sandalwood and dust, the prickle at the nape of his neck and the whisper in his ear.

_Alexander, _what a sad mournful sound that was, _ it doesn't change anything._

He realizes then that he had been asleep, must have been, because as he throws himself up in bed the silence presses heavy and painful against his eardrums. The whisper had been a dream, too loud and real to be true.

The Institute is silent with Isabelle and his mother out with Simon for the night and Jace still resting. He walks into his brother's room with barefoot silent steps and watches as the still pale dawn light illuminates him and Clary. He leans back against the door frame and sees how even in sleep they hold each other as if they were trying to keep the world at bay, fierce and protective, the days of peaceful sleep long gone. Their hair mixes like an aura of fire.

He closes his eyes and wonders what they'd looked like if anyone had ever contemplated them in their sleep. Uneven, he decides, unmatched; his snarls of hair and his pale skin dull and lifeless as a corpse against the backdrop of Magnus's vibrant skin and ridiculously sparkled hair. But he thinks, perhaps, there had been undeniable love in their embrace; something whole and true and fragile, something that he had smashed like a petulant child.

He knew it was dramatic, leaving the arrow by Jace's bed, but it was all he could spare. After all the rest of his possessions were infused in the scent of sandalwood and had become precious to him just for that. His brother would understand that he didn't want to be found until he came home.

* * *

His bed was cold. It wasn't reasonably cooler considering it was missing six feet and a hundred fifty pounds of body heat; it was frozen, the sheets prickling uncomfortably against his skin night after night. He wanted to leave Brooklyn, desperately. He could in an instant and he intended to, just after settling one more matter of business, this episode of Top Model, that cup of coffee he'd been lusting after.

He'd go.

There really wasn't anything here for him, not with everything on the edge of flames as it was now. Better to go look for a nice hole to crawl into and wait out this impending war. He took a sip of his coffee and smiled bitterly at his reflection on the window.

He wasn't going anywhere.

The Chairman rubbed slowly against his ankles and meowed at him, his little matching eyes affronted by the absence, "He's gone, stop it, you're _my _cat."

The cat strut away back to Alec's pillow, which he had commandeered the day Magnus had failed to get rid of it. Some nights they battled for a spot to lay and breathe and pretend it wasn't all true.

The whole loft was cold. He imagined it was the kind of cold Hell could be if it were cold at all; the empty, frozen, vacuum of space. He found himself wondering if people were like suns that tethered each other to orbits of warm light and what happened when you cut that tether off.

He leant against the window and watched the mundanes walk through the street; lovers curled up into each other, boys hurrying by, people who were all too evidently alone in the world. He tapped his fingers against the glass, his fingers following the beat they always drummed against Alec's side as they drifted to sleep, like a lullaby in Morse code.

* * *

Alec's body curls in on itself like origami under rain. Three weeks passed before his insides caved in. He doesn't know if he screams but perhaps he does because Isabelle's arms are around him and Jace's hands are on his face and _he had to come home_, when he realized it wasn't just a nightmare, he tried to go home.

When he manages to look up his face is soaked but so, he notes, is the rest of him and outside the storm rages violent and unannounced; so his face streams with droplets of moisture so constant that not even he could discern raindrops from tears.

Jace is talking to him, thankfully not asking anything stupid like where he's been, not asking anything at all. He's just saying things that Alec can't hear through the rush of blood past his ears. The anger is gone, the useless desire to kill Camille and the synthetic cover of disbelief, all gone.

What he's left with is naked and flayed, something raw and broken and sobbing or that's just him, he's sobbing and he doesn't know who the shoulder belongs to just that it's not _him_. He's lost_ him_ forever and the wailing thing inside him seems intent on ripping his insides to shreds as penitence.

When he opens his eyes again he sees the flames of Clary and Jace by his head, Isabelle's arm wrapped around his waist, their quiet breathing nearly synched. His family tries to protect him from the bitter cold, ignorant to the fact that it comes from his core. He prays, and he hasn't prayed in so long, but now he shuts his eyes and begs Heaven be merciful that the life of whose brevity he'd so complained not stretch out now.

He climbs out of the bed and back into the rain; because he's lost everything and nothing he does to gain an inch of it back can make things worse.

* * *

The pounding at his door is paused and heavy like a plea for sanctuary against cathedral doors. It was foolish to think he would have listened and stayed away. It was foolish to believe that he himself could resist him if he were in any way near. He could hear his footsteps as the door clicked closed downstairs, tired and soaked. Alec had a way of ignoring the elements, only noticing them once you wrapped a warm towel around him and called him an idiot.

He waits for the footsteps to echo up the stairs but they don't. When he peers down he can see a wet curled up ball of man at the foot of the stairs. He stares down until Alec's head snaps up, his expression no less painful to behold then the blade that had pierced his side. He closes his eyes and breathes and the scent of him is there, fresh and real and forbidden, "Go home, Alexander."

Alec's voice was strained, like an invisible hand held in a vice around his throat, "I'm trying."

Magnus leant against the railing, attempting a blank expression as he held Alec's gaze, "You effectively tried to kill me Alec, if you'd gone through with it that knife would have killed me and your tears wouldn't have brought me back."

"I would have died with you!"

The outburst startles them both, Magnus standing tall once more and Alec retreating further into the corner, his voice still trembling, "That's all I wanted was to live and die with you until that moment, it's true." He bit his lip, always fearful of words, of how inadequate he felt they sounded coming from his mouth, "And then you were in my arms dying and I would have given the breath from my lungs if it meant that the world carried on with you. I don't… I don't need to be the last one to have you, Magnus; I don't care if you've loved others more than you will ever love me but please don't make me live without you."

Magnus thinks bitterly of the long eternity he will live without Alec, wonders if he realizes that in a few years no matter what happens he will have to go on alone with the ache of loving him. He pads quietly down the stairs and crouches in front of him, running a hand through the waterlogged hair and licking his lips, "What you did Alec…"

"But I didn't," his eyes are begging like a sinner at the steps of Heaven, "I didn't."

Magnus pulls him up to his feet, guiding him up the stairs and into the bedroom. He pulls Alec's drenched sweater off him, wraps him up and pulls him close to breathe him in. It's their home, this space between them, which only warms with them tethered to each other.

Alec breathes against his neck, greedy and broken like breaking free from a suffocating wave, his chest heaving, "I will give every ounce of strength I have to fix what I've broken but don't send me away. _Please, I'm sorry._"

He isn't truly asleep, instead suspended in that midspace that holds your body captive while your mind is at least partly aware; aware of the press of his lover's chest against his back Magnus's whole body curled around him like a puzzle piece, aware of the goose bumps across his shoulders where Magnus's breath flutters over his heated skin and the perfect heat of their legs tangled with each others. It's the most perfect state of being because he feels himself loved and knows that although Magnus cannot bring himself to say it or even believe it part of him has forgiven Alec, and though he is willing to do penance for the rest of his days he marvels in the lightness of forgiveness. He breathes in deep, overwhelmed by the familiar scent of sandalwood and dust, the prickle at the nape of his neck and the whisper in his ear.

_Alexander, _what a beautiful sound that was, _I love you._


End file.
